Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2010 with funding from Lyrasis Members and Sloan Foundation http://www.archive.org/details/gleaner78stud In Memory of DR. JAMES WORK Editors' Note . . . In last years Editors' Note I tried to encourage all the wallflower artists and poets, those that keep their work to themselves, to come out of hiding and submit their work to the Gleaner. Last year we also used photographs and detailed drawings to improve the appearance of the magazine. I think these factors stirred a new interest among the student body. I consider the present edition a success just by basing it on the growing support we had this year. A staff of two has grown to eight. We received over twice as many contributions as last year. The size was enlarged from 5" x 8" to 10" x 8". And we expanded from thirty-two to forty-eight pages. That's not even considering the content of the Gleaner. I am very pleased with the increased interest in the Gleaner on this campus. However, it is still only a small portion of all the people who write, draw, and take photographs. We have talked about publishing Fall and Spring editions next year. To do this we need even more support than we had this year. The success of the Gleaner depends on you, the students. We need your continued support, interest, and creativity. GLEANER Established 1901 DELAWARE VALLEY COLLEGE OF SCIENCE AND AGRICULTURE DOYLESTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA 18901 SPRING 1978 GLENN SHARKO — Editor CHRIS McCARRON— Assistant Editor Staff Typists Diane DeVore Bill Purcell Beverly Tichy Sue Crane Chris Shimko Gwen Schubert Connie Bish Marian Verrastro CONTRIBUTORS Debbie Kupiec Nancy Bailer MB. Annette Capp Matthew McDonnel Sue Crane Lynn Mazzei Diane DeVore Terri Domagala Edward O'Brien. Jr. Russ Dougherty Mel Rawls Tom Richardson Karen Frey Glenn Sharko G.S. Marian Verrastro Bill Hornby Dr. Richard Ziemer Index to Artwork and Photographs Page Name Cover Glenn Sharko 5 Marian Kloter 8 Chris Shimko 11 Sue Crane 15 Chris McCarron 17 Bill Purcell 19 Chris McCarron 21 Glenn Sharko 22 Marie Kovacs 23 Marian Kloter 24 Marie Kovacs 25 Glenn Sharko 26 Marie Kovacs Marian Kloter 27 Louise Sanders Bill Purcell 28 Glenn Sharko Marian Kloter 30 Chris Shimko 31 Chris McCarron 32 Bill Purcell 37 Chris Shimko 38 Bill Hornby 41 Diane Devore 43 Chris McCarron 44 Sue Crane 47 Diane DeVore 48 Chris Shimko THE GLEANER is published during the scholastic year by the students of Delaware Valley College of Science and Agriculture of Doyiestown, Penna. THE GLEANER is a student publication, and the opinions expressed within are not necessarily those of THE GLEANER staff or administration. Neither the college nor staff will assume responsibility for plagiarism unknowingly occurring within. How to Eat A Poem Don't be polite, Bite in. Pick it up with yourfingers and lick the juice that may run down your chin — It is ready and ripe now, whenever you are. You do not need a knife or fork or spoon or plate or napkin or tablecloth. For there is no core or stem or rind or pit or seed or skin to throw away. Eve Merrian Childhood Days of Laughter, Days of Joy, Days of little girls and boys Playing the game 'I declare war' Mom yelling, 'Don't slam the door.' Pretending bikes were motorcars, Putting a villain behind bars. Hide and go seek, now you're it Winter snow, how the cold bit! Swimming pools with water only two inches deep, Lying in bed, hear monsters creep Eating lunch at Grandma's house Cat brings home her very first mouse Dreams and wonders you don't understand Going to mom for the cut on your hand First crushes and first hurt Playing baseball, slide in the dirt! Thunder and lightning, hold someone tight Mom breaking up another fight Childhood days have now all passed They are memories, forever to last. Marian Verrastro In your search for survival, Are we losing our position together As companions, conspirators, coordinators Of the special bond we knit By being of the fragile strands we are? Why must you pull now? Your weaving, taking from me The very special fibers that made us our unity. The unravelling, the tangling, Will its continuation destroy our masterpiece? Karen Frey Dark clouds enshroud me, for I am a thunderstorm. Thunder; the confusion and turmoil in my mind Lightning; the harsh which strike people down Rain; the tears of sorrow I shed for what little remains. Diane DeVore Thoughts without words are easily lost in the search. Karen Frey As weathered winds in storms do blow so is the illusion of truth that may paint so well. Seemingly relentless at first, undying and forceful Only to suddenly cease beating And return to the calm, honest things that were before. Tom Richardson Fox-hunting: Meditation The triptych hung on the wal I of the inn, A painting of people on horses, dogs frisking about, With a comfortable, country house in the background. Then a horse and rider jumping fence, others coming; And then the hunters resting their mounts by a forest, Chatting with one another, the day nearly over. Men, women, horses, dogs, and fields; The persuit of an elusive little creature — Surely these are unassuming elements. Why do these scenes summon the heart, Why do red-coated men or black-clad women On stately horses chasing the fox entice the eye? Are they not vacant Tory gentlemen and leathery ladies, These pecunious people in their breeches and boots; If one could meet them, would they not be dull? Dr. Johnson, riding once to hounds, found them so. And doubtless their Church and Party would not be yours Nor even their notions of sport or land use. What is, then, the charm of the chase? Is it the smell of money, the lure of leisure, Or the snobbery of bon ton, of "quality"? For some the brazen love of hunting itself — The persuit of wild animal in noisy company; The shouting of men, the yelping of hounds. For others the call of history, of nostalgia: For doing of a thing that was done when Trajan ruled, In a setting that was the same when Beckett preached. For those who wi 1 1 never fol low the flash Of fox, perhaps delight in elegant forms, Of woman on horse, traversing emerald realms; Orthe link with bold, exotic literature; The intricate tapestry woven by the Pearl-poet, His stirring chases of the deer, the boar, the fox; Or only the approval of a well-made painting, Of a cracked and dusty and faded triptych Hanging on the wall of an amiable inn. I am still uneasy, after saying all this. The sybaritic tinge of that equine face is What induces a reluctant kiss. Some afternoon the final call of the horn May sound for the Belvoir, the Pytchley, and the Quorn; Three famous packs whose passing few will mourn. We may regret the loss of what fox-hunting brings, Of what comes to us early, and clings: Pure sport is part of the poetry of things. Edward O'Brien, Jr. Wilted flower, Turning brown, Never been praised, Never been appreciated, Never been picked, Never been a rose, Glenn Sharko Losin' Blues Wasting away with the end drawing near Wasting the day with my head fixing fear Seeing through Sunday when God is so clear Lasting till someday when death bells I hear Waiting for word on return of my love Waiting for word from the Lord up above Finding my new dawn is gone with the sun Flying away with the wind on the run Wishing my life had just quit then and there So to the winner it's only too fair Me I'm a loser there's only despair Why do I reach for a handful of air Still I keep climbing never reaching the top Just one more step till I slip and I drop Down to the bottom where grief does not stop God help this poor man who's tied in a knot . . Smell of disinfectant brings back a wave of days better forgotten . . . Sneakin out of class for a smoke Scratching for solace from the alone-ness I felt in those sterile high school halls I sunk to such depths back then, Suffered such icy isolation Walls of fear surrounded, So thick All covered with a thin veil of fantasy Sittin in the bathroom Aching for a ride — Every sense, every thought, every space in my whole being was filled with such an ache for a high Searching for a heaven — . . . Never knowing it lay inside. Mother, Holding hands over little boy's eyes, Don't let him seethe Bad and the ugly and The filth and the hate, But how can he be prevented From seeing where he lives. Mother, Holding hands over little boys ears, Don't let him near The words of criticism or The words of hate or love, But how can he be protected From truth. Mother, Holding onto little boy, Keeping him from reality, Keeping him from life. Glenn Sharko The Voyages End My voyage almost now complete It seems to me a good time to rest these weary feet. The ship has set sail for that golden line far out on the ocean, And the thought of you is keeping my mind in constant motion. The sails are feeding on the gusts of wind, And soon there will be no more letters for us to send. I am sailing for that rocky shore where you have always waited for me, And only God knows how I long for that harbor to be my final destiny. The sea has always been a good friend of mine throughout the past, But now I'm afraid she is about to see me for the last. However, the parting shall be sweet and for the good; For just like you, my heart she has always understood. Mel Rawls see me' ■•■AWttfthe prettiest n^-'ftiat a woman can 'v'^J want you. 7^ Mmw&£^ Y&Lmst as strong is thejerce within that hiwwith a slap-like an icy wind Pulling rre&way and into myself Binding mevftth its razor-sharp crystals Yi back to my dark cold road ms I been walking this road ong Soti&gei So tired^f chopping up pretty things to c^partmefits to keep myself alone So tired of rurraing. Coming^soNplose alwpj touched you. Jjjut that old self crept upon me : i.' in the night " Stalking-so silently slipping her noose around my neck. Whisping "you got to run away now P*&>& # * * Wi Morning busts forth , Wrappings md ■injtswarmt like sunsfiirj'e on & quilt like good smells from the Like everything I always w believe in but couldn't Good things, pure things, true things are all part of this embrace. I walk in a new light today as if the pain of the night has cleansed me way down deep inside and has set me free That old self must have died a little more Because I rise up and start on a new road, walking slowly, gently, but with sure steps. Like a new rosebud my heart opens unfolding itself to your love. My arms open up like achilds' — to you in. take you in. I want you. Combinations A boyish man, unsatisfied with the standard, stereotype ac- tions and reactions between people, looked at his own actions and realized these actions were not really his own. They were so pred ictable and so close to the stereotype actions that he became so disgusted with what he was that he left himself. He walked out leaving the cement walk, the hard wood floors behind. As he walked down the steel streets, people with masks carved from oak scorned him demanding him to return to the red brick house with the cement walls having bland life-less pictures on them, back to the hard wood which never cushioned the foot but flattened the hard callous developing on them. He looked back, thinking that maybe that pointless security was right because of all the persecution, but as he looked back he was startled by the sight of a real face. The solid square lines of the oak mask were not there. The solid texture of a mask with the look of compassion showing on the round, changing lines. The eye si its of the mask could not hide the eyes screaming of the love and pity they had for him. As this was going on, the people with stereotypic phrases chastised him but in vain because all he heard were the lips begging him to be happy, seek himself. With that his mask dropped, the people outside of the red brick house disgustedly stomped inside slamming their doors behind them. The slate sidewalk ended right outside the city limits, and soft, plush grass came up to meet his now unsheathed feet. As he came to another city he put his shoes back on so that his feet could withstand the punishment of the sidewalk. As he stepped on the first slab the heel of his shoe sank into it. He figured maybe the sidewalk was wet but his foot bounced out. He bent down, touched it and it turned out to be foam rubber. Barefoot again he bounced down the street feeling the softness. The first person he came to he greeted in the usual manner, that being a quick look in the eyes then to the ground. This person was not riled by this and greeted him in their usual way, an embrace and a kiss on the nape of his neck. He was taken back at his action and demanded an explanation for this person's action. The explana- tion was that it feels good. The next person he met did the same thing, and as more people performed the action he was more indoctrinated to believe this was a common practice. He began greeting people in the same manner and began to make acquain- tances during his stay. He made friends with a certain girl and she treated him in a way which seemed to him to be affectionate. Upon seeing more and more of her until the ultimate intimacy was performed; he knew her and knew how she made every nerve send sensations throughout him. In essence she was a perfect physical lover. She touched him when and where it gave him most physical satisfaction. While making passionate love he told her he loved her and she was puzzled at the word so the entire process came to a grinding hault. He tried to explain the elusiveness of love, but she neither wanted to feel the emotion nor try to understand it or its implica- tions. He loved her but could not accept the fact that she could not love. The sensations produced began to be as predictable as the actions that were done where he came from. He pressed to teach her of love but she went away forgetting him. The touching was only to satisfy so that she would be satisifed in return. The ab- sence of feeling hurt him so much that he had to leave that town. He put on his shoes so that he would feel the softness of the foam rubber sidewalk. As he walked down the road another town came into view. Its buildings were in geometrical designs and the shrubs were pruned in that manner also. His first encounter with an inhabitant was interesting because he greeted that person the way he greeted people in the previous town. He was looked at as being abnormal with an incapability to adjust to an intellectual community. The greeting that he must now conform to was a "Wall Street" type handshake along with stating the latest, up-to-date weather forecast. He started to board in one home in this community. The people living there were participating in discussions of politics, scientific theories, and chess moves that in theory would terminate a game within ten moves. Two people were playing chess but without a board or pieces. A girl living upstairs from his challenged him to a game of chess which he accepted with the condition that they be able to use a board. They played every day during his stay and began to become quite close. One day he reached over the chess board and touched her gently on the cheek. She instantly went into a fifteen minute, carefully prepared speech pertaining to the instinctive sexual behavior of the males in the species, void of emotion and the knowledge of the feelings that physical contact can convey. He tried to explain to her the feeling produced inside while the acts of touching occurred. She became enraged and demanded he leave the town quietly or else she would have to turn him to the authorities because physical touching was illegal only because the physical and emotional subtracted from the intellectual. As she demanded, he obeyed and left as he came, quietly walking out of that intellectually hungup community. Upon coming to the next town, he saw that it was a combina- tion of his home town and the first town that he had visited. Meeting the first person he awaited the greeting, knowing that it would be different from all those he had previously known. The person handed him an apple, seeing he was hungry from his journey. This person, a woman, took him home, fed him, and put him up for the night. He asked why she had done this and she replied, "In this place, what one has is everyone's." His heart was warmed by her response; he thanked her with a combination of praise and a kiss on the cheek. She understood neither. She told him that it was her duty to share and to feed those who needed to be fed and to help whoever needed to be helped. He felt estranged from that place because he felt he had nothing to give and in no way could he help anyone. He told her that he must leave, that this place was no place he should choose to inhabit. He left the same day with a coat, a bag of apples, and a sandwich which she gave him. Along the way there was a man clothed in just a pair of jeans and sneakers and curled up to stay warm because dusk was approaching. The coat which was a gift was given away once more and the man was prepared for the evening. With the coat the man received some apples to nourish him until his next meal. Our traveler became content and the joy of helping increased as he gave apple after apple away as he walked. There was a man tending the gate at the edge of the city who received the gift of his last apple. Upon walking down the road the next morning, eating the sandwich that was prepared for him, he came upon a town that was very familiar. It was his home town and he was almost going to turn around but he had to return. It was an inevitability. He returned walking past his mask still lying on the sidewalk. Hesawthemaskless body approaching him and she inquired about his journey. They sat together next to a trickling stream and he told her of his travels. While dealing with the subject, he found himself with his head in her lap sharing the experience while dealing with these abstracts intellectually. That is the time when he found himself. He had not found himself on any of his other trips; he did not find himself staying where he was either, but he did find himself combining what he had learned in all of his experiences and applying it to a deep and meaningful relationship with the one he now loves. Russell Doughty Revenge I killed a mosquito today, but I'm still s-c-r-a-t-c-h-i-n-g where shebitme! Dr. Richard Ziemer Appreciation Cows and corn and spreaders of manure Hay and beans and milk I'm sure Sun and soil and rain to cure This is what I am living for! Sue Crane To Jean All the change and confusion promises and false illusions, Walking forward and always trying The joys with laughing, sorrow with crying And this they say is growing up. Rushing, pushing, always on the go What's right for me I do not know Fearing and wondering, "Do I belong here?" All is hazy, confused, nothing is clear And this they say is growing up. And if you find someone who's always there Listening to thoughts you want to share A companion, a buddy, a someone you could depend on Suddenly they're gone, — facing the loss of a friend And this they say is growing up. A thought of Dying Standing here, a cemetery plot, Wondering, thinking, questioning. A thought of how they lived the life, Which they lived and died, most likely alone. A feeling of not belonging It seems I have no say, A stranger asking deep inside Is it real ly better that way? Life passes so quickly, Death happens as fast, It is a chance to get away. You think — finally — rest (death) at last. A cemetery is a resting place, Tomb stones toppled (no one cares). Growing weeds out of place, This makes it embarrassing to the race (people) People pretend they care so much, Not really — the cemetery is uncared for, They seem to care too much About living a full life Yet missing life's real meaning. Annette Capp Terri Domagala Walking in the morning, He looks through sleepy eyes Into the bathroom mirror, Sees nothing. Goes down town, Trips and falls, Woman stumbles over him, Curses him out. Stopping at the house of God, He stands in front of the Worshippers and denounces God, They pray on. Wanting to dance, He looks for a girl, Suddenly entwined With their partners. Sitting with the lonely Old man in the park, Talking unnoticeably to a body With its hearing aid turned off. Picking flowers in the meadow, He lies in the forest, Feeling warm, Flowers still in hand. Time passes, Flowers die, Grass grows, Flesh erodes. Metamorphosed, Born anew, Ribs turn into roots, Blood to sap. Lovers stop at tree to Carve initials into bark, Sap flows forth Like tears long overdue. Glenn Sharko ' The Final It'sSatAMinAllmanHall and Aggies sit for their exam final In History and Parasitology; But it could just as easily be Poly Sci or Sociology. Watch these Aggies as they write, Concentrating with all their might, Trying to capture words on a page 'Ere they're a moment's thought of age. Of all these students I help proctor A few know me as "Doctor". O'er forty students here I know On whom this college will bestow A degree for courses Which they've had on hogs or horses Cows or bees, bio or cheese Bus Ad, agronomy, chem or trees. A few seem so well relaxed You'd think they never had the axe Fallon their pates From birth to date. Still others struggle to get their best In that exam book for the test Which holds them in such wrapt attention That they writhe, oblivious to all distraction. Tho' they write no Congressional Record, Their pens and pencils push with one accord. Guess I envied their composin', And to keep myself from dozin', Grabbed my pen to write And share a modicum of their plight. Dr. Richard C. Ziemer It's a boy! It's a boy! It's a boy! Come crawl to me, come crawl to me. You can, if you will, You will I know, you are like me. Comewalkwith me, little fella, be like me. You are not you; but you will be me. Come run with me little boy, you run like me. Let me see little man, do I see me? you are you or are you? Or are you me? Or just an endless entity; man. Matthew McDonnell Sad I wish someone could understand how I feel inside. It's kinda like the feeling you get when you fail, and you really tried. It's kinda like when you lose a love, and you feel Lost, and out of place. It's almost like when you want to die, you cry, and hide your face. I can't compare this feeling. 'cause it's one I've never had. The best way to describe it is, it just makes me feel so sad Marian Verrastro Rain The rain trickles down the window Like drops of tears from empty eyes Streaming down a blank face. Tears — falling for forgotten reasons From a long-ago-life once lived — That means nothing now and yet continue, Their very uselessness Attesting to their reality, Yet from these tears of long ago, Buried in the long-ago reasons of their existence, Springs new life And reasons for tomorrow. Lynn Mazzei Thought Can't escape the tragic feeling Like I lost on Sunday's kneeling Can't expect my mind to wonder On through the mists of plight and blunder Wishful thinking brings only unrest For today's thinking is always the best Think not of tomorrow or days gone by Thinking is for the wondering why. Live at ease with life's little lessons Take in mind all man's endless sessions Pass through time without bothering the thoughtless Don't trouble your head because you have thought best Think for once of the inevitable stakes On how it is probable to force your mistakes But learn from your troubles, it's life's wisest book You'll find yourself thinking if only to look . . . Looking for our love, I knocked on your door and Asked you if you Had it and You smiled so I kissed You and I realized that I didn't have our love, So I asked you Where you hid it. Glenn Shark o Immaturity You turn on I turn off You turn off I turn on You playgames I play along You stopped playing I didn't know I'm playing games You play no more I am baffled I am alone. Annette Capp y There are times when I can tell where my feet must go Through my mind I must agree my movements must be slow See what's unkind . . . what is free . . . what will grow Look and adore Then again I must dive in and fight out my life Remember when? I must begin ... It cuts me like a knife It was then an origin from the dark night To daylight's door My hands are bound my legs are tied with a chain or line The harshest sounds my ears have tried to exclude from my mind My ears have found it's inside a conscious sign I won't be forlorn Life's a play I won't delay in playing out my part It's not to say that this maylay is someone elses art. It's now my day . . . it's my display . . . I've time to start to write the score fiuss Doughty Clown, Big painted smile Covered frown, Funny glasses Cover tear filled eyes, People laugh. Clown, Sat quietly, Dreaming of happy home, Children, Wife. Clown, Make us smile, Do a trick, Tell a joke, Make a happy face. Clown, Hiding tears, Dreams of dreams Things he's not. Clown, Lying still, Smiling, Finally in the World of his dreams. Glenn Sharko know nothing more times opened by mistake than the mouth. Tom Richardson White Lace Sifting back through lost space I come across a piece of aged white lace. Where it came from I do not know, Yet I see in my dream it swirls against the falling snow. Who it belongs to I cannot say — It must be left over from some previous day. The breast it laid upon is a fantasy of the past, And the hands which used to know they're feeling well, have grown old and cease to last. The softness of the lace is no longer true: Even the color has lost its hue. The solitary fringes are frail and weak, Sigh nothing but memories of yesteryear for them to seek. To think! that this fragment of lace can possess all of my desire! What selfish ignorance upon my part. What to do? Where to turn? My head is full of fire. Why didjnot see that lace hates heart? Tic tic tatter fork on a platter bring me my meal will you please? It does not matter that I grow fatter oh, how I love apples and cheese. Glugglugglupper a beer with my supper bring me my drink will you please? fill up my cupper and I will drunk upper oh, how I love coffees and teas. The Rising Tide My life is like the rising tide The setting sun keeps me alive Don't really care when I will die I am to live, or at least try I've been on life and lost a few Always something better to do Many days have seen me be blue It's been from those days that I grew If you look and see my crying There is no need to start to frown Can't you see the tide is rising Won't be long I will come around I must live like the sun and wind Too many places I've not been When I am down, the wind blows in Tho setting sun, new days begin And if you care to reach my mind I'm sure that I could find the time Just try to look out through my eyes In them you'll see the rising tide G.S. ^— — A Glimpse of the Bright Shadow If Tris hadn't been so careless in letting things lie around His full name was Tristan Howard Campion, and though he was legally an American citizen, he seemed more English than Yankee; and though Catholic, he seemed more Anglican than Roman. Lover of European monarchy and classical music, of heritage and heraldry, Tris Campion combined a mystical piety with a realistic political conservatism. Austere, yet kindly, he became a figure out of the past as he fluently spoke of British India, or Theology, or the contradictions of liberalism. He loved good conversation, so that you felt lifted up and brought into contact with living history; he flattered you that way. It was excit- ing, for no one else talked like him. He reminded you of Coleridge or Sam Johnson. He was articulate, learned, imaginative, witty and devout. And yet this defender of Medieval traditions made at least one concession to modern technology (which he ordinarily con- temned): he loved photography with a passion. Early on, Tris bought a fine 35 mm. camera and learned to use it with the accuracy, discretion and intensity that attended most of his ac- tions. He lived in a comfortable home with his family on a quiet street in little Dyertown. On the ground floor he had fitted up a small room devoted to photography and to a large collection of books. This room was cozy; a snug little lamp would cast a warm glow on a desk littered with photos, books, some pipes and a tin of tobacco. One summer afternoon, when Tris was upstairs in the bath- room and no one else was at home, his friend Ray Jones stood in Tris's study staring at some photographs that were lying on the desk. Ray was enough of a friend of the family to rap on the front door and walk right in. In those days, back in the fifties, no one in Dyertown bothered to lock his door in the daytime. The window was open and the curtains were blowing in lightly and Jones, always a very practical man, was carefully examining five glossy full-color prints, each eight by ten. It is impossible to describe the expression on Jones'sface beyond saying itwasodd. He abruptly picked up two of the pictures and paced about the room, then returned to the desk and looked at the other pictures once again. "Say, Tris!" he called out, loudly and nervously. "Be right down," came a voice upstairs from behind a door. In another two minutes Tris Campion stood beside Ray Jones. He apologetically gathered up the five photographs and put them neatly into a large manilla envelope, which he put into a desk drawer. "Those pictures, Tris. I couldn't help seeing them; where did you get them?" Campion looked uncomfortable. "I ... I wished you hadn't seen them, Ray; I didn't know you were coming." Jones spoke in a shaky voice, "But . . . where did you get them . . . how ... the colors . . . Those 'trees' I guess, the landscapes, that building, was it? My God, Tris, but you've got pictures of what must befwo new primary colors. They're incredible!" "Yes, so it seems," Campion replied lamely. "Plus all the usual colors. Rather unsettling." "But what are the pictures of?" "Isn't it obvious they could be of only one thing? Come on, I know you've read a lot of popular astronomy; the sober specula- tions of Arthur Clarke, the space scientist, for example. Use your head." "Well, yes, I thought of that right away. Somehow you've gotten hold of actual photos of some alien world in a strange star system; a system where they have those primary colors, and those land- scapes. But it's not only this, it's that everything looks different in ways you would never conceive if it were up to you. The pictures are ... a little frightening, and wonderful; ah, not spooky at all but so different, beautiful. How did you get hold of them?" Campion sat down behind his desk and fiddled with one of his pipes. "If I told you, you wouldn't believe me. At least you must realize I couldn't possibly fake those new colors." Jones laughed. "No, certainly not. Have you been in contact with UFO people, with flying saucer aliens? Is all that stuff some- how true?" Campion said with a smile, "It appears as if a lot of things were true that you never thought were true." "Apparently." But Jones had something else on his mind. "Tris, these pictures are worth a fortune. Think whatL/Ye Magazine would pay forthem. Have you tried to publish them?" The other man frowned. "No, I really don't know if I should make them public or not." Jones could not credit what he heard. "Why not? Oh, you mean these saucer people, have they told you not to?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. It's my own problem." "I don't see any problem, except where a guy like you would invest his money from it. You've got the chance of a lifetime. You could ask for a hundred thousand. What are you worried about?" "There are . . . considerations. How could anyone reproduce these colors by earth technology? Those pictures weren't taken in the Solar System." Campion managed to get rid of the importu- nate Ray Jones by pleading fatigue. He said he wanted to lie down and think. Jones left in a state of turbulence, determined to do something practical. He wanted another person to see Campion's pictures, and he figured he knew just the man. Jones was acquainted with Ed Murnane, a close friend of Campion, who had known him for twenty years. "You've simply got to see these pictures," Jones was say- ing over the telephone to Murnane, standing and listening sceptically, as he held the receiver. "Who'd ever think I'd talk like this, but Tris must've met some aliens from an interstellar spaceship — don't ask me how — that's the only source for the photos. I mean, Ed, they're really shocking, beyond all imagination, even the colors. But he doesn't know what to do with them. I want you to find out just how he got hold of them, and see if you can persuade him to publish them." Murnane said little, not wanting to be made a fool of. "Well, are you going to see Tris?", asked Jones. "Why would any exotic outer-space people get in touch with my obscure friend Tris, who likes to go berry-picking and take pictures of humming-birds? Anyway, I don't believe that interstel- lar ships have ever come to earth. If they had, they would have made open and obvious contact with significant earth people like heads of state, important scientists, and great religious leaders." "That's what I used to think, Ed, but you'll believe me when you see his pictures." "Okay, I admit you've made me curious. I'll call him." Murnane telephoned his friend immediately. "Ray Jones called me and said you have some unusual photos; said I should see them. What's it al I about?" "I was going to get in touch with you soon, Ed," said Campion. "Come on overtonight, will you? I think you'd be interested." By eight o'clock, Murnane was seated near the desk in Cam- pion's study, a tall Tom Collins in his right hand. Campion sat behind his desk, with a manilla envelope lying before him. He lit his pipe, sending the smoke swirling about, and settled back. Despite the old friendship between the two, the atmosphere was slightly edgy and both knew it. Each man had a problem of credibility to solve, but each knew the other pretty well, and there was mutual trust. Murnane knew his friend to be unusually stable in every way, and therefore, he was excited at the possibilities; Campion realized he was taking a risk, but he knew he held trumps in the manilla envelope that lay between them. As he threw down his match in the ashtray, Campion said quietly, "I want you to look at these pictures of mine, Ed. I want you to be the first, and possibly the last, to understand their true subject matter." Murnane moved uneasily in his chair, and sipped his Tom Collins. "Their subject matter? Yes, I got a jolt when Ray Jones told me you had pictures taken in another star system, and that you must have been given them by 'extra-terrestials', as they say. I don't know how to take this outre story, except to say that Jones told a good story over the phone. I suppose it's possible, but you monkey, you could probably fake any picture you want." A small smile appeared, with more smoke, about Campion's mouth. "You exaggerate my skill. Well, I haven't faked them — no one could fake new primary colors. Or the scenery." "Jones was impressed." "Yes, I know what he thinks, the spaceship and all that." Campion paused, and continued to smoke, then went on. "I must tell you that Jones is quite wrong. These are not pictures taken in any galaxy. I'm your oldest friend, Ed; I want you to believe me when I say that I took these pictures myself in the midst of a very strange experience. Maybe only you can believe me, foryou have always known my deepest concerns, and you share them. "You remember that last month I went to Ireland with Ruth, and when I was visiting some ruins of an ancient, remote abbey, it happened. No one else was around, Ruth had remained at the hotel; one moment I was simply walking alone near the old abbey, and the next moment I was in this very, very different kind of place. There seemed to be no travelling at all, no sense of motion. My left foot had come down on Irish grass, but my right foot came down . . . somewhere else. Ireland had vanished. I was, naturally, very excited. I had my camera and I proceeded to take these pictures." Campion tapped the man ilia folder in front of him. "It didn't occur to me that it might be wrong to do so. I looked around for awhile, meeting no one, yet knowing by grace where I was: in a part of what I might call the 'outskirts' of the traditional Christian heaven we believe in. Hold on, Ed; there really isn't any point in my calling it by any other name; the old, simple, solid, reassuring word is quite good enough, believe me. Then, suddenly, I found myself outside the Irish abbey, standing still in the everyday green grass of the field. Though Ireland is very beautiful, a sense of loss swept through me. I had returned to earth, but it no longer felt I ike 'home'. For one thing, I became conscious of time, and time now felt strange, felt like a nagging, driving sort of thing, like a lingering pain in the back. I looked at my watch (I had not noticed it in the other place); it had stopped at three-twenty nine, though it is a good watch. Then another tourist came by and gave me the time: three-thirty. The additional minute had passed after my return. My experience had been timeless." "In heaven!" said Murnane. "How much can a man believe in one day? First, extra-terrestials and now a story that you've been to heaven." Tris Campion smiled. "Wait a moment; I never asked you to believe in interstellar spaceships; I don't accept them myself. And I only saw the outskirts, the foothills, of . . . The Place." Murnane finished his drink. "True. Tell me, Tris, how do you figure you only saw the 'outskirts' of heaven?" "Because I met no one, and because of what I saw in the far distance. I seemed to have very sharp eyesight up there." "How casually you say 'up there'! What did you see in the distance?" asked Murnane, his spine tingling. His friend shook his head. "I'll try. What I saw seemed like a mountain, but any earth-mountain now seems timid. There is something in the Psalms about 'mountains and all hills' praising the Lord." "Were you scared?" "No. Not at all. I realize that you are probably wondering, why me? I don't know why, exactly. St. Paul was taken up to the celestial regions. Second Corinthians, chapter twelve. But why was I permitted to take the pictures? Am I to share them with the public; with anyone? I want you to advise me, Ed; I've prayed on the matter. First, however, I want you to look at the pictures — you, at least, should see them." He brought out the photographs from the large envelope, holding them face down, and spread them in a row on the desk, face down. Five eight by ten rectangles of white paper. To Mur- nane, the room, the very air, had changed. He suddenly thought that he simply could not just pick up these pictures and look them over as if they were pictures of Tahiti or some Alaskan mountain range. He hesitated. "Let me think for awhile, Tris. How about putting on some music." This was both a request and a command, in the manner of old friends. Campion put on some Handel, the 'Royal Fireworks' music, which both of them had always loved. Meanwhile, Mrs. Campion had come in and gone to the kitchen. They could hear her moving about. Ten minutes went by. Then Murnane turned off the music and said, "Tris, I came here intending to examine your pictures, but now I'm not so sure." "Oh?" said Campion, refilling his pipe. "What's the matter?" Murnane, troubled, glanced at the curtains moving in the soft summer breeze. "I feel ... I should not look at them, though I'm curious. The pictures are either authentic — that is, taken where you said they were — or they are not. They may be authentic, but I'm not certain. If they're not authentic, I may look at them and think they are, in which case I've been deluded and have a false notion of heavenly things." "Good point," Campion conceded, though disappointment clouded his face. "Please don't take offense. On the other hand, if they are authentic, then maybe it would be wrong, orfoolish, forme to look at them. It's proper for you, if you were taken there, but why me? If I'm supposed to 'see though a glass darkly,' not with the help of photographic brilliancy, then I should not presume to peek. Your revelation isn't mine. Do you agree?" "That there are some things properly hidden from us? Yes, I suppose so. Then why was I taken there and why was I permitted to take the pictures?" Murnane leaned forward. "For your own good — you may have needed some re-assurance — but not for the good of the public. Not so that all sorts of people might look at these pictures and laugh at them, laugh at what they'd call Christian trickery born of desperation. Imagine the vulgarity of magazine and television handling of your pictures; the captions, the sneering remarks from professional cynics sitting in the seats of the scoffers; imagine the letters and the phone calls. Nor can you publish them without mentioning their true source, for then you would be involved in a deception concerning your relationship with God. No, your ex- perience should remain private. Perhaps it was simply a gracious gift to you alone." Campion sighed, and slipped on another record of eighteenth century music. "I must agree with you; I had already come to the same conclusions you have; you're a confirmation. Too bad, I could've made some money, and also gotten some headaches. The thing that I must absolutely not do is play around with my experience. And Jones is no problem. No one will believe him, and he won't seethe pictures again. Let him carry on all he wants to about my elitism, or "the right of the public to know" or science and primary colors. I don't think it was merely a coincidence when I happened to read, a few days ago, a remarkable poem of Robert Frost's called "A Passing Glimpse." The final couplet runs: Heaven gives its glimpses only to those Not in position to look too close. As I see it. Ed, (taking Frost's idea of the glimpses to apply only to this life, for we cannot apply it to the next), my being taken to heaven and getting these pictures is, after all, only a passing glimpse. A brief look at the outskirts, so to speak, and a few unforgettable photographs — how lovely they are, and how splendid is that place where even the shadows are bright! How- ever, to publish them even with the best of motives (which I would not have), would be to 'look too close', in a sense, by exploiting what God has given me. I know that my motive would be vanity, and "greed". Murnane agreed fervently with a nod, then said, after a short silence, "That's good, Tris, that's very good. And I can apply Frost's lines to me, without stretching them (not that you did). For me, the passing glimpse is my knowing someone who has gone there and my believing him — a sort of shot in the arm. For me to look at the pictures, when I feel I shouldn't would be to look too close. You and I have had ourglimpses, so we are 'not in position' to look further in this life." "That's it, Ed." "And I want you to know this: I now believe the pictures are authentic. I'm sorry I doubted you. I believe your story, I believe you. That is enough. If our common religious beliefs, if our long friendship and the trust it has built up, and your story, are not enough, then what in the name of God would be enough? My 'analysis' of the photographs? The application of my 'critical intellect' to the data? My 'scientific' judgment? How pathetic in matters of this kind. By the way, what will you do with the pic- tures?" "Let me ask you first, how difficult is it for you to sit there and not look at them?" Murnane shrugged. "Hard to say. I hope it will get easier in time. You could say it's a question of where you get your help." "Good; that's grace; has to be. Especially, when it's rammed down our throats by our culture that curiosity, originality, and information are almost absolute values. I will put the pictures away where no one will see them; no one will ever know about them from me." "Nor from me. And when the time comes to 'graduate'?" "I won't need them, then, and apparently I'm the only one who ever did need these pictures. So." "I understand." They shook hands, and Murnane left. Campion picked up the photographs, one by one, and looked carefully at each one before putting it in the envelope. His face was shining with joy. He looked at them only once again, just before he graduated, five years later. THE END Edward O'Brien, Jr. Cigarette Smoke As I lie back And watch the blue smoke Curl up from my cigarette, I contemplate The unfelt currents That can move my life about In the same way That they are able To twist cigarette smoke. Lynn Mazzei The path is clear. . . Travel deeply into the crack Between the land which is and that which seems to be . . . In slow progressions, carry yourself to the opening . . . slowly, ever so gently Look deeper and deeper . . . close your eyes, look with your mind's eye — see the continuation of the crack. Never lose sight of the ever widening array of colors, light and peace Beyond . . . That what is and that which appears to be has been joined with that which is to come. Bill Hornby Please understand that, If we meet on our journey through life, and things don't work out, Let us leave each other in the same way we came, with smiles and laughter, not harsh words and tears. Because final moments are what we seem to remember most. Marian Verrastro On ocean beaches A woman teaches, her mind it reaches into my own. The words they bounce within my mind before I realize I'm on the wrong shore. Tom Richardson Do you remember the night we met? That's one night I'll never forget Remember Cathy's party that Saturday night? We necked until her brother turned on the light Remember the kiss in the hall when you call me a tease? I stopped talking to you until you begged please Remember the night it snowed and I spent the night at your house? When I feel asleep you left as quiet as a mouse Don't forget the nosey old ladies in the halls You took me to the City to see a play If I was to relive something it would be that day Remember the Monday we went to Rye Playland After the rollercoaster no one could stand The next Tuesday night you said, "Don't say Goodbye!" I left your house with a tear in my eye Tomorrow I'll be gone, I'm moving away With all my wishes and tears I still couldn't stay We wrote back and forth of dreams that could be We had such a love, Why couldn't they see? August I called to say" . . . see you next week." We hugged and kissed — there was no time to speak Now all that's left are the letters, memories and dreams You say you still love me but that's not how it seems But you promise to always be true I wish you'd realize I'll always love you Now that it's over; now that it's over Take care, God bless and remember — I love you. Terri Domagala You are warmth to a journey man, a dreamer's hearth. Your flame reaching out and touching what you will encounter. Touch me softly, gently, if you please Reach down inside me and take some away. Take it in and let it grow, inside of you, Keep it there it cannot die, That part of me you'd chance to spy. Keep it with you if you will, I am a journey man and a dreamer still. Matthew McDonnell Daybreak is in your eyes — the intense blue of an October early morning sky, placid am I when I look into your eyes . . . Sue Crane Am I not taking the time to live, to find the enjoyment of just being the simplicity of just knowing I'm alive? Karen Frey Something Sometimes Said But Often Understood Nobody Admits Meaning Though Too Often Said In Vain; Do You Understand? I love you Matthew McDonnell 1; r Hotwrt Cp 1 I! | ra I - 11 I sat at the edge of the pond staring at the reflection of the trees and the little people, who were rushing around cleaning off the incredibly high cat tails. Boats of acorn shells were rippling through the water. Rising, I turned towards our house, in less than one minute the old wooden salt boy transformed into a house of newspaper. The barn red door became a maroon New York Times. A cloud appeared composed of clusters of tiny marshmallows, I sat upon it, rose into the blue sky. Looking down I saw a yard of green marmalade, in sadness I caught a glimpse of a tarred driveway. I jumped from cloud to cloud, then raced along a white streak in the sky. The wind was whipping through my hair as I slide down a rainbow onto a lake of glass. After slipping, falling and sliding on the glass I cryed to the clouds to bring me back. An old oak tree slowly bent down and picked me up as if I were a fragile doll and placed me upon a puff of marshmallows. It was like a candy land, only it was real. Passing my father I hollered down to him but he didn't hear so I buried my head in the clouds. I don't know what happened but at 5:00 my mother was down at the edge of the pond shaking me. Maybe I fell from a cloud 9 Diane DeVore IKK83& ! •! *>U ' W, '( , ' 'Iff '^ £ 'L X.JL- " %M Love Is Only Meant for Me & You Running for my life down those endless barren roads It always seemed to me love was just an unbreakable secret code, But ever since I met you girl the words are suddenly clear. And loneliness is an affair that I have ceased to fear. Even my dark and cloudy destiny has become a scenic view, And I'm telling you girl — love is only meant for me and you. Where you came from girl I will never know, But your hair and eyes I remember against the falling snow. Why you have decided to stay is a mystery to me, And are you really sure I never loved you during a forgotten century? After seeing that magnificent bird which upon you always flew, It surely reminds me girl — love is only meant for me and you. Longing foryourtendertouch is what keeps me alive, And just to feel your warm breath upon my neck is the only thing for which I strive. Your gentle hands keep me from going insane And just to live with you forever is all I wish to gain. My love for you is lasting, keen, and true, And I swear to God girl — love is only meant forme and you. Your kind words are eager, full of bliss, And that is what I pledge to you — continuing happiness. You took me into your arms when I was cold and lame, And now I'm grateful you are the one to blame. I hope you don't mind these words I sing, for they are all deep and true: Now I see you realize girl — love is only meant for me and you. Those subtle footsteps of yours I shall follow till my dying day, When it is just no longer possible for me to stay. However, this undying love will continue to live on, And flourish through the early morning hours, right before the dawn. If you ever wish to see me, remember the church pew, And listen while I whisper girl — love is only meant for me and you. Love is like a grammer song You do the best you can, but still it turns out all wrong. You start out with fragments and rhyme and end with a story, reading the lines. Capital letters, good times, go hand in hand, but then there are commas and periods I'll never understand. The Conjunctions followed by Exclamation points, but!, pause — The End on •■* \ « Freedom is like a rainbow rare. Diane DeVore . Requiem There is a void in our lives now. Like the tunnel of a wave, quiet and peaceful The tide drifts out, the waves roll on. Sue Crane Feeling Like Feeling like words on such a gray day Feeling like forests in winter's melee Laughing at legends of sailing away Speaking in silence with something to say Finding that something is nothing but dust Doing my daydreams when I know I must Wind and weather turn me into rust Looking for reasons I know I can trust Yesterday's laughing, I'm crying instead Bringing the blues I can't break ahead Fighting the feeling I've grown only to dread Swallowing words that should have been said i:^-:M^ Alienated from the world, A person under cover, Dodging in and out of his friends As they try to avoid him, They bask in the sun as He lurks in their shadows, Trying to get out from under their feet, But he still gets stepped on, So he tries to thrive on isolation, Keeping himself idly active, Blowing in and out of the presence of many, Never feeling welcome enough to stop and chat, Trying to hide his feelings, Running undercover. Glenn Sharko P. Corps Giant you carry the world on your shoulders (with Brandy glasses we laughed that night.) (Lover you never cried, I was leaving for a civilized jungle) Butt'is I who will change it. Nancy Bailer Minstrel (To Kathy) Sing us a song, 0, Minstrel! May in your song Your words take flight Like a flaming phalanx of swans, Illuminating a sere land With beauty. Paint for us with your words Silver ships with lamps of gold On seas of emerald and sapphire In search of the riches: Truth Beauty Chivalry. May your words scorch As dragon's flames When speaking of Injustice and falsehood, And sooth like Cool water Or a fair maid's gentle touch When speaking to us Of love. May your words uplift the soul As the wind lifts the eagle High above the clouds. Spin your spell With threads of silver and gold, Hung with precious stones As a spider's web in early morn Is hung with dew. Sing us a song, 0, Minstrel! Lynn Mazzei Wedding Gown Wedding gown yellowed stained darkness is your home. You were a shiny day Man is just a missing link fondly thinking he can think Tom Richardson my life. You made me beautiful in my youth. Now your wrinkles match mine. Nancy Bailer Our emotions are numb from the grouping of masses we lose our uniqueness which drift far like gases then swirl into nothing, not leaving a trace. So dare to be different and set your own pace. Tom Richardson My Lord Oh god, How I dread spending this evening alone, Sometimes my only wish is to just lay down and join you upon yourthrone. But then I have many commitments too important to leave, And I am sure you have many problems more important than me. How nice it would be to sit down with you and have a talk, Or even go up into the mountains and take a walk. I know I sometimes disappoint you, But I am young, and do not see things from your point of view. However, when I grow older and more mature, Perhaps I shall hear your words and know for sure. But until that day please guide me through this life with a careful hand, And I will promise to abide by your laws upon this land. Within my Hands Within my hands I beg to choose The chance to bare the fleshy fruits To feel the land when it's turned loose To harvest grain for one world's food My hands are such to plant the seeds My back is tough from war of weeds The sun shines bright to fill green needs The rain brings life to all it feeds And from my hands I must give life To see the land when fruits grow ripe With painted trees from frosts while night For in the leaves burns the life light . . . J Merely A Man I am merely a man or so it seems With only hopes and day long dreams If it wasn't so hard to say I was I would have been but only because Because I cannot see the world as such «^*». They ask for me and take too much Too much of my young heart all full of holes Leaves me my mind to fill my goals Then what is to be left a heartless man Able to walk never to stand . . . G. S.